SIDE STORY: THE CAPTAIN, THE MERCHANT, AND THE WARG (PART 3)
“To see his beloved once again Wil the Bard wagered with the Five-Faced Fool of Filaamora. Names would be gambled over knucklebones, and fate would decided. With only himself to bet, Wil danced his fingers along the bones, knowing he’d join them if he failed. Deft hands and defter wit carried the day when Wil caught nine-and-five to the Fool’s four-and-seven. Laughing all the while, the Five-Faced Fool became the Four-Faced Fool and Wil became someone else.”- The Fall of Antoia (Act II, Scene VI)
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“I was just heading back after finishing me last deliveries when this strange little bugger jumps out of an alley, grabs my horse’s head, then runs off. I thought at first it was just some kid mucking about on a dare, but then Rolf, that’s my horse, started acting funny.”
Wibran the wagon driver paused from his tale to take another long swig from the cup of tepid tea in his hands. Sitting in one of the guard tower’s drunk cells, the stocky workman seemed more sheepish than anything else as he recounted the previous night’s events to Ironteeth, Darvy, and Cat-eyes. He’d woken up while the Captain had been at the courier house and was quick to offer his account of things, especially upon finding out the cart he’d tipped over was suspected of being stolen.
Swallowing down the tea, the sobering wagon driver continued. “Rolf started shaking his head back and forth like flies were about, even though it was well past midnight. For a moment I was scared the stranger had fed him something rotten, but then the real weirdness started. See, Rolf started to… to fade. I could look through his rump and see the cobblestones below! At first, it scared me but then I figured out what musta happened. Those young magi are always playing tricks, right? One must have cast a charm on Rolf!”
Leaning back in his chair, Ironteeth let out a tired breath. It was true that the Ivory Tower’s students had something of a reputation for… pranks; the majority of which proved harmless amusements for both the apprentice magi and city at large. Ironteeth also knew what happened when one of those pranks got out of hand; he’d cleaned up after more than one and extracted all sorts of favors from the Tower to not arrest the arrogant little arselings responsible.
“I got off me wagon, checked on Rolf and he seemed well enough even as he turned completely see-through. Strangest thing I ever did see, his harness just floating in the air like that.”
Wibran hesitated then, glancing up at the trio of guards staring at him. “Well, it was such an odd thing, I had to show me, mates, right? I’d made the deliveries and was free, so…. I took Rolf down to the Brass Belly; that’s a pub over in-”
Ironteeth interrupted the carter. “I know where it is. So you what? Had some drinks, showed off your enchanted horse? What happened after that?”
Nodding slowly, unwilling to meet the Captain’s eyes, Wibran said. “I’d had one too many but, that wasn’t anything new for me or Rolf. He's a good old dray and has taken us both home more than once. We got on the road and it was just another night for a while, but then something got him nickering and all nervous. Even though I couldn’t see him, I knew Rolf was bothered, just the way he pulled and sounded.”
Cat-eyes spoke then. “Any idea what scared him?”
Shaking his head, Wilbran answered. “He wasn’t scared, that wasn’t the way he was acting, no Rolf was stressed; like how he’d be on a fly-thick summer day or a new route with too many other horses. By then, I wasn’t seeing or standing straight, but I still tried to calm him. Took a bit to get off the wagon seat without falling over but I got to his bridle and did my best. But Rolf wasn’t having any of it, he was tossing his head back and forth, neighing and bout ready to rear up. Now I was nervous as well and had a good grip on his halter to keep him from doing anything stupid.”
Taking another long sip of his tea, and then staring at the cup’s dregs, Wilbran half-whispered. “For a moment I thought I’d got him under control but then… bugger me, the halter just fell into my hand, like it fell right through him. Now I may have been in the bottle, but horses are me livelihood, I know when a halter breaks or has been put on bad, this was neither. So I just stared at the thing for a moment, and I think Rolf did too, but he wasn’t drunk and had enough wits to spook.”
The guards exchanged looks as Wilbran hunched his shoulders. “Rolf reared up then and I got away from his hoofs. But the liquor was having its say and I fell over me-self right into the gutter. The world took a little bit to stop spinning but when it did I saw Rolf was right panicked. He was thrashing about, I could see that in his harness and how my wagon moved. But, more than that, he was getting tangled in his tack, the different ropes wrapping around places they shouldn’t. No, not shouldn’t, couldn’t. They were falling around and through him, leather that should have been on his back was tripping up his legs.”
Finally looking up from his empty teacup, the cart driver said. “I tried to get up and calm him, but jagged-jacks, I could barely stand. Still, even without my sorry hide, Rolf got himself free, knocking over my cart and putting me back in the gutter again. He must have hit me hard that time since I don’t really remember much else until I woke up here.”
Processing this mad story and trying to file away all the important bits, Ironteeth asked. “How long were you at the Brass Belly?”
Wlbran made a noncommittal gesture. “Two, maybe three hours? I’d say all together it couldn’t have been more than four hours between Rolf turning see-through and me getting knocked out. You could ask round the pub, someone would have a better idea.”
Slowly getting to his feet, Wilbran approached the cell bars. “Uh, so how much trouble am I in? I mean, this whole mess happened cause one of those kids at the Ivory Tower, and I’ve told you all I know.”
Standing up as well, Ironteeth gestured towards Darvy. “Start the paperwork for the proper fines. I think considering everything we can write this up as drunk and disorderly conduct, with maybe another mark for reckless wagon driving.”
Wilbran winced and Darvy nodded before offering the cart driver a smile. “Oh don’t be so sour. No jail time and we’ll even see if we can get your horse back.”
Gesturing for Cat-eyes to follow him, Ironteeth left the cell and started heading towards his office. The City-warden walked slowly beside him and asked. “So, you think this is connected to your goblin?”
Ironteeth grunted. “He’s not my goblin, but it could be; it’s slagging strange enough.”
They found the goblin in question waiting in the Captain’s office, still fidgeting with his overabundance of rings. Reaching his desk, Ironteeth fell into his chair and asked. “So what do you know about magic that doesn’t just turn things invisible but also partially intangible?”
Grim-faced, Boris blinked slowly. “In-tangi-ble? Yes, that was word I looked for.” Glancing to Cat-eyes he said. “Before, I asked if this invisible horse was intangible. Which I take it is?”
Despite himself, Ironteeth snorted in amusement, thinking back to his own days of learning the common tongue. Compared to dwerick, the western human language was flowery with parts both annoyingly vague and bizarrely detailed. Humans, it seemed, needed multiple words for everything important and even more for everything not.
Refocusing, Ironteeth nodded, recounted much of Wilbran’s story, and then asked. “So, can you tell us what sort of slagged goblin witchery this is?
Boris sucked in a breath through his teeth. “The curse of styranie. It’s old ugly magic, the side-walkers used it as punishment, but my people found another use. Anyone under the curse is doomed to be forgotten by the world. Something spies and similar can use.”
Thinking of the courier house, Ironteeth muttered. “Like a subtlety spell? That would explain how no one noticed our thief.”
Shaking his head, Boris clarified. “No, it doesn’t make people overlook you; it makes everything forget you. At first, it is just like invisibility or unhearable, but with every minute, the curse settles, and the bearer is erased, bit by bit”
Biting his tongue, Boris was clearly struggling to find the right words. “This horse couldn’t be seen because the world forgot it was supposed to be visible. Then its tack fell off because it forgot to touch the horse. Eventually, the ground will forget the tracks it leaves, and air won’t remember to carry the sounds it makes. With enough time, the world’s pull will ignore the horse and it will disappear into the stars”
A long breath escaped Cat-eyes, and she said. “What the fuck?”
Boris’s angular face split in a tight smile. “A dreadful fate, but it can be avoided by transferring the curse before it grows too strong. Which I suspect explains the strangeness with the horse.”
Shutting his eyes, Ironteeth felt the pieces slide together like perfectly cut masonry. “This Varganiki, he put the curse on himself to slip into the courier house undetected. But his search took too long, and the magic started to erase the sound he made. That’s why he broke the door and nobody heard it, he was rushing to find something to dump the magic onto.”
Getting up from his desk, Ironteeth frowned as something stuck out. “But that doesn’t make sense, if the Varganiki was invisible, then who did the carter see bothering his horse?”
Cat-eyes shrugged. “Maybe we’re overthinking this and these are two separate matters? Vindabon is a big city with lots of magic, the horse could be unrelated to the robbery. Besides, Wilbran said the strangeness started over in Einmark, that’s two districts over from us and not that close to the courier house.”
Slowly, Ironteeth said. “I don’t like coincidences, and having a Gobavi assassin loose in our city while something awfully like a goblin curse has been spotted seems like a big one.”
Turning his focus to Boris, the Guard Captain asked. “What’s exactly involved with transferring the curse and how long does it take to work?”
Boris made a noncommittal shrug. “The stories say the curse bearer can take a bite out of a piece of bread and then offer what’s left to another, and if they eat it they take the curse. I’ve also heard the more ‘known’ a person is the longer it takes the curse to erase them.”
Getting up from his desk, Ironteeth let out a sigh. “We’re well past our steel price on this. I think someone with proper magical knowledge is needed to get any answers.”
Seeing how Boris recoiled at that suggestion, Ironteeth elaborated. “I’m not going to turn this into a city-wide hunt just yet, but calling in some help is necessary. The Seventh Temple should have some insight into all this. If anyone can track down a cursed horse, it will be them”
That did little to quell Boris’s clear discomfort, but he still acquiesced, joining the captain and warden as they left the guard tower. Once again, they took the goblin merchant’s carriage, with Cat-eyes joining them as they rode towards the Temple of Aunt Huntress. Staring out the coach’s window, the City-Warden said. “Well, as bad as all this is, I’m taking some comfort in the fact magic is involved. I’ve been kicking myself all day for not being able to find that jagging horse.”
Ironteeth thought on his subordinates' flippancy and asked. “You’d been tracking it all morning, correct? What signs did you see?”
Shrugging, Cat-eyes shut her eyes, pulling up memories. “Well, hoofprints for one, and its smell. That alone should have been enough for me and I swore I got close multiple times but…”
Taking a moment, she looked at Boris and slowly said. “But its path made no sense. I’d gain and lose the trail over and over like it was teleporting or… moving through things I couldn’t. Shit! Could it have been literally walking through walls?”
It was Boris’s turn to shrug. “Buildings come and go; they’d have a shorter memory and forget the horse before the ground beneath its feet did.”
Letting out a sigh, Cat-eyes rubbed her face. “Well, that would explain things, and put another tally mark in favor of your curse being responsible. Jagging Sidhe ratfuckery! This stuff hurts my brain!”
Leaning back against the coach’s seat, Ironteeth sifted through all the facts and some of their broader implications. His people had no love of the Fae but hadn’t ever quite developed the bone-deep hate for them that humans did. Being the first people on Vardis to learn iron-smithing and living predominantly below ground kept the Dwergaz safe from the worst parts of the Sidhe wars. Still, the dwarves knew to leave faerie magic well enough alone. Something the goblins and distant elves never seemed to learn. As the more Ironteeth thought about it, keeping this matter secret seemed a wise choice. Even disregarding Boris’s concern for his fellow goblins, if word got out of a Sidhe curse being loose in Vindabon? Well, panic had never made a city guard’s life easier.
Soon, the Seventh Temple came into sight and Ironteeth could no longer brood. Moving his jaws so his metallic replacements clacked against each other, the Captain hoped involving the priests of the human hunting goddess wouldn’t be a mistake. Staring up at the approaching structure, Ironteeth couldn’t help but admit the humans were good at sticking to a theme for their respective deities. Where the Tenth Temple in his own district was a monolith of dark stone, stained glass, and a shocking amount of statuary. The Seventh Temple’s structure was predominantly wood and shaped like a seven-spoked wheel.
Each spoke was a timber structure akin to some northern lord’s longhouse, with sloping roofs and large eaves. The open spaces between each structure held forest paths and gardens that seemed cut from distant wildernesses and transported into the city’s heart. At the center of the seven halls and the green gaps was a great circular fane built akin to a nomad’s tent. Mighty beams, each sourced from ancient oaks, stuck out from the wheel spokes at an acute angle, their ends interlocking and forming the fane’s apex. Wood and glass filled in the space between each beam, creating a huge internal space that Ironteeth knew to be decorated with every manner of carving, tapestry, and trophy imaginable.
Staring up at the temple, Ironteeth felt a strange mix of envy and contempt for the humans and their pantheon. He remembered when his mother took him to the ruin his clan once prayed in, showing him the desecrated statues and cracked altar now left as a reminder to future generations of the betrayal his people once suffered. Then, as a child, he’d not given it all that much thought, merely finding the broken idols and stink of neglect unsettling. Now, decades later, seeing what artistry and passion the human’s faith evoked, Ironteeth looked upon those old memories with new eyes. Absently, he wondered what the humans might have done in the dwarf’s place. If their gods had abandoned them, would they have burned down their temples or kept the faith in the face of such betrayal? Glancing over at Boris, Ironteeth let out a slow breath and decided such questions were irrelevant, especially when worse fates could befall a culture than their deities disappearing.
Leaving the coach, the trio headed for one of the temple’s halls, and hopefully some aid. Inside the great structure, the smells of sap and animal musk greeted Ironteeth. He honestly didn’t know if the scents resulted from some incense being burned or just how his mind interpreted the magic filling the structure. The Tenth Temple always left him feeling slightly colder than was warranted, but considering he usually only visited the building to inspect corpses on the slab, his chills meant little. Passing deeper into the temple, Ironteeth let his feet take him on a familiar path toward where he hoped his contact in the Seventh Temple would be. Of all the religious orders in Vindabon he’d had the most contact with the followers of Father Sky, Aunt Huntress, and Master Time; their respective duties overlapping with his own. So he knew a few of their more civically involved priests and could guess at who would be the most helpful in this mess.
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To that end he found Priestess Suvi Spare-Quiver pouring over documents inside the small space she called an office. Looking up from her work, the middle-aged woman raised one pointed eyebrow at the interruption. “Captain Ironteeth, what do I owe the pleasure?”
On first inspection, the Priestess looked more like a city clerk than an experienced warrior priestess of Aunt Huntress. She lacked any of the stereotypical furs, bone totems or intricate headdresses expected of her kind. Instead, she wore her hair up in a bun and chose plain earth-toned clothes that reinforced the air of bored disinterest she exuded. But anyone who could look past this urban camouflage would quickly see signs of the woman’s history and experience. Her nose had been broken on at least two occasions and the fast fingers she now used to fold away scrolls carried callouses any archer would find familiar. The long pins keeping her silver-brown hair up in a tight bun had unusually sharp edges while a slightly too intricate horns and arrow necklace dangled around her neck. Suvi Spare-Quiver belonged in this temple, she was just better adapted to the city surrounding it than many of her colleagues.
Gesturing for Cat-eyes to shut the door behind her, Ironteeth said. “I’ve stumbled into a problem that is looking to be well beyond my steel-price.”
Suvi nodded, her expression giving away nothing. “I’d assumed so, considering you’ve come to me for help.” Glancing at the two who’d followed the Captain into her office, she added. “Is this a werewolf problem like last time or… something new?”
Ironteeth always found it refreshing to deal with a human who didn’t dance around matters like it was their date to a harvest festival. “Something new. I’ve got good reason to believe the courier house robbery has to do with some goblin goatshit leaking into our city.”
For nearly the next fifteen minutes, Ironteeth and Boris, with some prodding, explained the situation to Suvi. Laying out the Varganiki’s presence and their suspicions about the invisible horse. Throughout all this, the Priestess listened impassively, digesting Boris’s concerns about a city-wide hunt hurting innocent goblins alongside Cat-eye's account of the horse's strange movements.
Interlacing her fingers, Suvi nodded slowly. “I know of this curse and I’m inclined to believe it's what we’re dealing with.”
Looking at Boris, she asked. “How much of Vindabon’s exile goblin community is sympathetic to your cause?”
Frowning, the merchant replied. “All of it. One does not leave the motherland without-”
Suvi cut him off. “Let me rephrase that. How much of the goblin community couldn’t be threatened by this Warg’s Head into helping him.”
That got Boris to pause and consider things, his frown growing deeper and deeper. Ironteeth let out a tired sigh as he understood the implications. “You think he forced some goblin to take the curse upon themselves and that’s who put it on the horse? Someone who’d not had it long enough to properly disappear?”
Nodding, Suvi explained. “Curses often hold imprints of their previous holders, and the right rituals can tease out information about them. But rapid repeated transfers can muddy the waters, and degrade the curse’s magic. If I were the one who wanted to get rid of the curse quickly and without leaving a good magical trail I’d force it upon someone who’d know how to do the same.”
Cat-eyes spoke up then. “Why not just transfer it and then kill the new holder? Seems a lot simpler than turning this into a jagged up kid’s game of tag.”
It was Boris who answered. “Magical consequences. To take the curse, bread is shared, that is powerful act. If either side broke compact, the curse would punish both.”
Shaking her head, Cat-eye muttered more curses about faerie magic and its horseshit nature. As much as Ironteeth felt similar, he didn’t have the luxury to bemoan the madness they’d all fallen into. Instead, he said. “Well, I think the curse is a dead end. Asking the goblins about this now seems the best option.”
Boris winced. “I don’t know how many answers we’d get. My kin are rightfully suspicious and know to fear reprisals.”
Seeing the words already forming on Ironteeth’s lips, Boris shrugged. “Offers of protection won’t be much good. The Varganiki are feared by all, and promises of safety by foreigners aren’t worth much, even to us exiles.”
Deciding not to point out how Boris and his fellows were the foreigners, not his guards, Ironteeth grunted and said. “We can still ask about in some of the more goblin-populated districts, someone in the guards must have seen something strange.”
Clearing her throat, Suvi pulled all eyes to her. “I said repeated transfers might muddy the waters, but not that finding anything useful would be impossible. With the right spells, I might be able to tease out some things of value from this invisible horse.”
Ironteeth nodded. “That’s good. But we’d need to find the horse first, any ideas on how to do that?”
Something close to a smile flitted across Suvi’s tight lips. “Finding magical creatures within the city’s walls is something of my temple’s specialty. Give me till the evening and we’ll have something.”
Frowning, Boris said. “Much time has passed, the horse will soon be forgotten by everything.”
Suvi let one eyebrow raise in a perfect expression of dismissal. “The curse will have degraded with each transfer, slowing its effects. And besides, my goddess isn’t so easily trammeled by misbegotten faerie magic. The Pantheon has a long memory, and their miracles won’t forget about even a mere horse.”
Standing up from her desk, the Priestess made a gesture of dismal. “Now, be off, I’ll send word when I know more. It’s going to be long hours of work even without distractions.”
Used to the curt and often condescending manner of Suvi, Ironteeth got up and led his small group back out of the Seventh Temple. As they headed towards the hall’s entrance, Cat-eyes muttered. “I thought holy folk were supposed to be wise and kind, not have a pine branch up their ass.”
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The ride back to the tower was nearly silent, with Ironteeth busily organizing his notes and trying to figure out how much he could delegate over the next few days. It was times like these that made him thankful for Darvy, his lieutenant had a knack for organization and bureaucracy that the Thirteenth District Watch often found invaluable. As long as there wasn’t a major incident, Darvy was capable of keeping the organizational clockwork running smoothly. Now it just fell to Ironteeth to keep exactly such an incident from happening.
Going over all the pieces, the Captain was tempted to involve more of the city’s labyrinthine structures in this hunt, but Boris’s concerns were not without merit. Still, eventually, he’d need to go up the chain of command and spread what he’d learned to others. Ironteeth was playing a risky game; hunting after a foreign assassin and investigating a faerie curse practically by himself was asking for all kinds of trouble. But if he could catch the Varganiki or at least have enough evidence to aim the city’s wrath, then things would go better for everyone.
Unfortunately, time wasn’t on Ironteeth’s side. He didn’t have a better lead than whatever Suvi was working on, but waiting for her, would burn hours better spent elsewhere. Glancing over the coach’s interior, Ironteeth considered how best to use what was available to him. Cat-eyes might have better luck finding the horse now that she knew what was going on. Or maybe she might learn some things poking around the goblin communities. The canny city-warden might have more success than a large hunt, and she’d certainly be more subtle.
As for Boris, well, he needed to be kept safe and Ironteeth had a gut feeling the merchant wouldn’t make it easy. Putting a citizen into protective custody was already tricky enough, without accounting for goblin suicidality. If matters dragged on without a clear resolution, odds were Boris would do all he could to bait the Varganiki; especially if this got beyond Ironteeth’s control and the city started lashing out at anything goblin-shaped. While in theory, letting Boris dangle on the end of his fishing hook would be the easiest option for Ironteeth, his dwarven stubbornness refused to even consider the option. He wouldn’t rely on a goblin strategy to solve this problem; he couldn’t vindicate the sick worldview of Gobavi.
Looking up from his notes, realizing he’d been staring blankly at them for nearly a minute, Ironteeth said. “Cat-eyes, I want you to map out where there have been signs of the horse. Now that we know the damn thing can walk through walls, you might have better luck figuring out where it's been and where it’s going.”
Glancing at Boris, the Captain continued. “You’re coming with me to the tower. If the Varganiki is threatening local goblins into helping him, your knowledge might help figure out who and how.”
Cracking her neck, Cat-eyes offered a salute and hopped out of the carriage, leaving the Captain and the Merchant alone. Pausing from his eternal fidgeting, Boris asked. “I’m assuming once I enter the tower I won’t be leaving without your permission.”
Ironteeth grimaced. He’d hoped to have this conversation with a few locked doors and trustworthy subordinates between Boris and freedom. “Yes, protecting you and the information you have is important. The Varganiki will be slagged if he tries anything in my tower.”
Eyeing one of his rings, Boris said. “What if he uses another curse?”
Baring his teeth in something close to a smile, the Captain replied. “I’ve thought about that and have some ideas. The Varganiki seems unwilling to risk the curse doing more than turning him invisible, and just because I can’t see something doesn’t mean I can’t hurt it.”
Digesting this, Boris seemed to consider his options before bowing his head in acquiescence. “I’ve trusted you so far.”
A snort of wry amusement left Ironteeth as the carriage came to a stop. After Boris dismissed his driver, he followed the Captain into the city watch building and was sent to one of the workrooms with a guard while Ironteeth delegated what could be to his subordinates, and dealt with what couldn’t. With that done, the Captain collected a few useful items from the armory and his own office before joining Boris. Finding the merchant sitting inside the chamber, his six-fingered hands dancing in a constant display of nerves.
Dismissing the guard he’d put on Boris, Ironteeth set a small box on the table between them and started sorting its contents. Some of it was just notes, pertinent documents, and district maps. But alongside these more traditional objects was a set of engraving tools, some scrap metal, and a bag of tiny quartz crystals.
Sitting down, Ironteeth stretched his fingers and started picking over the tools while saying. “I want you to start thinking of which goblins in the city the Varganiki could cajole into helping him. Particularly those with resources or abilities that might be useful to him.”
Raising an eyebrow, Boris said. “Do you know every dwarf in Vindabon?”
Ironteeth cocked his head to the side and made a non-committal noise. “No, but I know lots of them, particularly those with power or a penchant for causing problems. Considering your role in this ‘Orphanage,’ I’d imagine you’d know similar.”
Taking a three-finger wide strip of copper, Ironteeth started etching a complex pattern into the material, muttering a spell cant as he did. The rune he was working on wasn’t anything complex, but it tested his limited skill. With the main inscription done, he plucked one of his beard hairs with a wince and wrapped it around the haft of a small jeweler’s hammer. Taking five of the pea-sized crystals from the bag, Ironteeth placed them along the major axis of his carving and tapped them into place using the gold-tipped hammer. Feeling the familiar prickle of magic go over his skin, Ironteeth held up the completed rune and nodded to himself.
Going over to the room’s entrance, Ironteeth affixed the rune to the doorframe. Admiring his handiwork, he said. “If anyone I don’t know tries to open that door for the next day that little plaque will make a lot of light and noise. Later, I'll make a few more and put them elsewhere.”
Frowning at the crude bit of runic magic, Boris asked. “Why aren’t those more common?”
Ironteeth waved a hand dismissively. “They are in dwarf holds. But humans don’t have the memory or temperament to use them properly. Besides, the enchantment needs to be renewed every day or so, and plucking hairs gets annoying real quick.”
Boris was still frowning. “If those can see through the curse, why don’t we use them more… offensively? Springing a trap using them would be-”
Jabbing a finger at Boris, Ironteeth growled. “Don’t. Don’t even try that. I’m only guessing the spell will see past that sidhe jaggery. That’s good enough for an extra layer of security here in the guard tower, not some slag-arse ambush with you as bait.”
Staring at the papers before him, Boris hissed. “Taking that risk is seeming better. Better, than offering up my kin for suspicion and persecution.”
Sparks practically flew from Ironteeth’s jaw, as ground his teeth together. “I’m not letting a civilian risk themselves like that. Involving a citizen is-”
Boris scoffed. “I’m already involved. You dragged me across city in your investigations and now want tacit betrayal of my countrymen. By making your list I’d be choosing who would suffer scrutiny and be responsible for any harm that came from the city’s clumsy efforts!”
Ironteeth wanted to yank out even more of his beard. “That’s not what this is! Someone is helping the Varganiki and you're our best option for finding them quickly! Besides, a list would help me aim the city, pointing its resources in the best direction instead of letting things get out of control.”
Shaking his head, Boris snapped. “I won’t endanger my fellows; but I will risk myself. Is that such a terrible trade in your eyes?”
Throwing his hands up, Ironteeth snapped. “Yes! Besides, you said you’d trust me, so let me do my job!”
A curse in the goblin tongue escaped Boris. “I’m willing to trust you with my life, but I can’t offer up others, can’t you see the difference? You rant about my people’s sickness and your words have some weight but miss the whole of the thing. Gobavi isn’t rotten because my kin are willing to sacrifice themselves! It’s rotten because our leaders expect and demand it of us! So let me make my choice and I’ll trust you to protect me. But don’t ask me to play Boyar to my brothers and sisters in exile.”
That struck like a stone and Ironteeth’s mouth shut with a clack. Settling back into his chair, the Captain slowly said. “We wait until the Seventh Temple gets back to us, and if we don’t get any leads from them or Cat-eyes we’ll discuss your plan.”
Boris bowed his head, making a gesture with his hands. “Thank you.”
They sat in silence for a long time, neither goblin nor dwarf was willing to break the tentative truce. Eventually, as was his nature, Ironteeth spoke first and risked negotiations collapsing. “Why do they do it?”
Cocking his head to the side, large ears twitching, Boris made a noise of confusion. Clearing his throat, Ironteeth gestured vaguely and elaborated. “Why do the Boyars sacrifice their people? I can still remember the screams from Milda and… and I could never understand it. Why let all those people die and lose an entire town like that? It wasn’t just cruel, it was… wasteful.”
Flexing his fingers, Boris stared at his hands. “Those in power would say a message needed to be sent; we must spite our foes and strike fear into any who seek our subjugation. If the foreigners know we’d rather burn down Gobavi than surrender it, they’d know better than to invade. As for the dead… the Sisterhoods of Witches and various monastic orders would say they earned the Three Queen’s favor with such bravery and faith.”
As Boris trailed off Ironteeth asked. “What do you say?”
A bleak snort escaped the goblin. “That our towns are made of wood and thatch; they burn all the time, so it's no great sacrifice. Besides, the Boyar’s hall was made of stone, and rebuilding the town keeps the serfs busy.”
Bawling his hands into fists, Boris continued, voice growing coarse with anger. “Serfs are but livestock, to be traded and culled as the Boyars see fit. We are sheep guarded by wargs, worth only our wool and meat; nothing more. Kept in filthy hovels and fearing the rest of our flock more than the beasts that own our pens. My family lived in squalor that our neighbors envied; they hated us for having a little more than them and we hated them for their grasping. There were always too many mouths and not enough food, a goat is worth more than a child, and a pig is worth a spouse.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Boris collected himself. “Do you know why the Boyars never stop fighting each other or our neighbors? Why conquest is a holy duty and war a constant yet there always seem to be enough kholops to feed the beast of war?”
Ironteeth made a noncommittal shrug. “I assumed they were greedy bastards like all nobles, just without anyone to stop them. As for the other issue… don’t your babes only need six months in their mother?”
Something like laughter escaped Boris but he shook his head. “Those are both part of it, but not the whole. See, the motherland is sick, our crops grow poorer and poorer with each harvest. Lands once fertile enough to feed armies now struggle to survive the winter. Territory must be taken to replace what turns barren.”
This shocked Ironteeth, crop failures were rare in the holy league and what Boris was describing lay completely outside his knowledge. “Your priests, the witches, can’t they do something? I know the human priests-”
Boris met Ironteeth’s eyes. “The witches are the problem. They are not like the human clerics; they practice the magics of shamans and magi, barely using miracles. But what is used, is used poorly. Three is the sacred number of Gobavi, and each Queen offers magic in triplicates. A fallow field can be blessed so its crops are three times as fecund. Newlyweds can be blessed to have a trio of triplets. Those who’ve proven themselves worthy can be blessed with thrice the life span of nature intended.”
Slow realization crept into Ironteeth as Boris continued. “But each blessing comes with a price. Farmland becomes exhausted, mothers die, leaving nine children behind, and entire generations are robbed of progress by elders who refuse to let things change. The Three Queens gave us these magics for times of trouble, but Gobavi now knows nothing else. My home has too many hungry children, too much ruined land, and too many withered old tyrants.”
Horrified, Ironteeth asked. “Gobavi is facing all this and they are wasting resources sending an assassin after you? That's…. that's… mad!”
Boris just shrugged. “No, it's Gobavi. Unless something changes my motherland will die, but those in power are cruel, sick, or stupid. They prefer stasis and rot than risk losing a thimble of what they have. That is why they hate me and mine; we see truth in the innards and know this can not continue. I think the Boyars hope if rebels and dissenters are stomped out the problems we warn of will go with us. A delusion, but a powerful enough one to see my head on a pike.”
As those words filled the room, silence fell again, this one as dark and heavy as any funeral shroud.